The Reminders

2

There's this idea of the phantom limb. A man who's lost his arm still feels the arm and behaves as if the arm is intact. What I have, then, is a phantom love.

We lived together for four years. Two years in Sydney's West Hollywood apartment and two years here, in our house in Los Feliz. He died one month ago and ever since, I've lived alone. But I don't feel alone. Everywhere I turn are reminders, some three-dimensional, others invisible, all of them speaking and taking up space.

For instance, this chair I'm in now has plenty to say. We found it at the Rose Bowl. It's a nineteenth-century antique, English, with lion's-paw feet and a floral design. Syd had an eye for this type of stuff, could discern the prize from the junk.

I remember when we first brought it home. I can hear myself now, complaining about how uncomfortable the chair is. I hear Sydney laughing, explaining that it's not supposed to be comfortable. It's a visual piece, he's telling me. Please, Mr. Winters, if you must sit, sit on the couch. And yet he himself would sit in the chair. He loved this chair.

But I can't say I love it, not anymore. Not when the voice I hear isn't even Sydney's but some distant and muted approximation of the way he sounded.

I stand up and drag the heavy chair through the house, through the kitchen, and into the backyard. I lay the chair on its side, raise my boot over the top leg, and stomp down. The broken limb dangles from chewy fibers, the amputation not complete until I've twisted a dozen times and yanked the thing off. I detach the other three legs in the same fashion.

I uncover the fire pit and form a tepee with the legs. The rusted lighter near the grill still has juice, but its blue flame won't stick to the antique logs. I could quit now. Or I could go get some kindling.

In the straw box under our bed, I find notes, photos, envelopes. We really were sentimental saps, the pair of us. We kept everything: the crude portraits we drew of each other while giddy on molly; my shoelace headband from our first hike in Griffith Park (my hair was long when we started dating); the paper airplane I made with Swissair on one wing, Take Me with You on the other; and, from one of our marathon dinners in the canyon, a matchbook.

While I'm here, I strip the bed. His scent lingers, real or phantom, I don't know. I toss the linens on top of the memory box and carry the whole lot through the bends of our bungalow.

I dump it all in the pit and wave the lighter again. A crackle as the flame takes and spreads. I watch the mass heat up and grow, feeling a sense of accomplishment.

It takes many trips, but I rid the house of all reminders:

The rug where I found his body.

His phone.

Forest painting from nobody artist.

Linen curtains, chosen by Syd, hung by me.

Wireless speakers from one of his clients.

New Age guides to success and enlightenment.

Issues of Food & Wine, Forbes, Esquire that had been neatly stacked on Danish modern coffee table.

Danish modern coffee table.

Earbuds, mine, but we shared them once in the theater before previews began; we each took an ear and enjoyed half-stereo Passion Pit.

Pictures in frames, both laptops, clothes, favorite tea mug, ski poles, Ping-Pong balls, unused parenting books, mail, postcards, birthday cards, business cards, sympathy cards, it's-the-holiday-look-at-our-children cards.

All these items lie scattered on the overgrown grass, waiting their turn in the fire. There won't be room until the pile melts down. At the moment, nothing much is happening.

I grab Sydney's tennis racket, jab at the heap. I poke and prod, breaking up the cluster, letting air squeeze into the gaps. Something sizzles, and the rubble finally ignites.

Even this, staring into the fire, is a memory. We were out here with our cocktails, resting our feet on the low brick wall. We had just bought the house and out of this new feeling of adulthood came a list of plans: more traveling, rings, even talk of a baby.

A spark leaps from the pit into the cuff of my pants. Syd bought them for me during one of our last shopping runs. I untie my boots, slide the chinos down, and sail them across the western sky. They land atop the summit like a fallen flag.

In the kitchen, I fix myself a cocktail. Gin, Campari, sweet red vermouth: a Negroni, Syd's drink of the moment. The fridge is empty, so I do without the orange rind. Reaching into the freezer for ice, I notice the bracelet on my wrist. It's an ugly thing made of cheap leather. We purchased two of them—one for each of us—while on vacation in Mexico. Only this one remains.

I reach for the metal clasp, start to undo the circle, but stop myself. Nose pressed to the leather, eyes shut, I inhale, and there it is, the past, awakened. A flash of us in Mexico, Sydney's gringo tan. I don't visualize it as much as experience it a second time, the sensation of it, just for a few seconds. But it's long enough. I decide to spare the bracelet for now.

I rinse a dirty fork and plunge it into the cherry-red mixture. While I'm stirring, I see it through the back window, what I've done. It's glorious and way out of hand. Illuminating the night, a zigzagging fury spitting orange danger everywhere.

I run outside, giggling. Maybe terror or elation or madness, all of the above, but I'm laughing. I raise my glass in front of the blaze.

"Good-bye," I say.

"I love you," I say.

And then: "I'm sorry."

Around me, the night buzzes. Voices through the fence, a figure in a neighbor's window. Hot wind blows against my neck. I turn back to the fire, now spilling from the pit and climbing the post that supports the porch awning. I step away, finish the last of my drink, and watch all our memories rise in smoke and vanish in the night.

3

The deadline for the Next Great Songwriter Contest is two weeks away and it's perfect because school is over and now I can spend all my time writing. The winning song will stream on a very popular website that people from all over the world visit. That's what the ad in the newspaper says.

To win the contest I'll need a song that can make people want to dance or cry. Those are the two strongest feelings music can give you. When people dance they forget and when they cry they remember. I don't know which is better for votes, dancing or crying, forgetting or remembering, so I'm starting with the dance song.

I'm down in Dad's studio right now, wiggling my pick over my G chord like I'm shaking up a carton of OJ. I'm using a special guitar pick that has my name on it, which was a gift from my mom's friend Sydney (Sunday, September 9, 2012).

I tap Dad's shoulder and he slides his headphones off one ear.

"How does this sound?" I say, playing him my dance idea.

He doesn't look excited. "I'm pretty sure that's 'I Want You to Want Me' by Cheap Trick."

The contest song has to be an original, which means I can't send them something that was already written by another person. I don't understand how Dad can remember the name of every single artist there ever was and which songs they sang but can't remember which password he uses for which website.

Dad makes music for commercials and TV shows and movies, which is probably one of the best jobs anyone could ever have, especially because he gets to do it at home. We live in a building made for two families but instead of having two families, we have our family on the top half and Dad has his recording studio on the bottom half.

Dad's studio is crowded with stuff, but not in a way that makes you crazy; in a way that makes you excited. Everywhere you turn there's something to look at (posters, books, souvenirs) and ask about ("What does CBGB OMFUG mean?"). It's packed with odd-looking instruments, like a Stylophone, which is a tiny synthesizer that you play with a pen, and a theremin, which makes a spooky ghost sound when you wave your hands over the top of it. Dad's studio is a factory where songs get made and also a museum full of strange objects and also a secret hideout where no one bothers you and also a place where you can dream about what might happen with your life when you grow up.

I'd much rather be down here than upstairs in our own house, not just because the furniture is newer and the couch is more comfortable, but because I get to be with Dad. He teaches me about old music and lets me bang on the drums and trusts me to refill his coffee mug.

Also, he lets me play his guitars. Dad has a dozen guitars down here, but the one I'm playing right now is my favorite. It's the Gibson J-160E, the same one John Lennon liked to use.

Everyone remembers John Lennon because his songs play in supermarkets and elevators and arenas and also in commercials and movies and on the radio and across the Internet. He's remembered in England and in both Americas, and Dad says he's even huge in Japan. Dad has his music on MP3 and CD and vinyl and cassette. All I have to do is write just one song as good as John Lennon did, a song that can keep playing forever and ever, always reminding people.

But I can't do it alone. "Are you going to help me, Dad?"

"I can't right now."

He's already got his headphones back on and his eyes are pointed at the computer. It looks like he's mixing a song, which means he's setting each instrument to the perfect level.

I'm flipping through my journal, looking at all the songs I've written over the past few months, and I'm wondering if there's something in here I can use. My journal is like having a second copy of all my memories, just like Dad makes a backup of all the music he records. We do this so that if something bad happens we won't lose our important stuff, which is what happened to Grandma Joan when she got sick.

She was a musician too. One of the last songs I ever heard her sing was an Elvis song (Don't be cruel to a heart that's true) and I was really wishing she'd do a better job of paying attention to the lyrics. When she forgot me, it felt like she was taking the end of a giant pencil and erasing me right as I stood there. It must be the best feeling in the world to be able to stop worrying about how much you mean to people. Once I win the Next Great Songwriter Contest, I'll finally know how that feels.

I tap Dad again. "What if we record ten songs and we choose whichever one comes out the best? Because sometimes a song will sound good when you write it, but then it sounds totally different after you record it. What do you think? Maybe we can record one song every day and then after ten days we'll still have extra time at the end to make one song absolutely perfect. Also, we need to find a great singer, like maybe Christina. Do you think she'd do it?"

I'm done speaking but maybe Dad doesn't know it because he's not looking at my mouth, he's looking down at his lap and taking a long time to answer. "I'm not going to be here tomorrow."

"That's okay. We can start the next day."

"Joan."

I love hearing my name but sometimes it means trouble. "Yes?"

"Put down the guitar, please."

Now I'm really nervous. Dad and me always like to play our instruments while we talk to each other, even though it annoys other people when we do it.

He leans over with his elbows on his knees and he faces the carpet and pulls at his hair. "I've been meaning to tell you." He looks up and his eyes are soupy and his hair shoots into the air like a porcupine that's lost his points on all sides but one. "I told you I was helping out Grandpa today. Well, I'm going to be helping him out every day from now on. I'll be working with him full-time."

"What about working here in your studio?"

He takes a deep breath, which is always bad news, and he says, "We're closing the studio."

Friday, April 1, 2011: Dad drops me at school and he hands me my lunch and he says, "We ran out of hummus, so I made you a mustard sandwich instead," and my face gets hot, but then Dad smiles and says, "April Fool's."

But it's not April. It's July.

"I don't understand."

"I love being a musician," Dad says. "You know that. Ever since I was your age, it's all I've ever wanted to be. But making a business work is another thing. This new job will allow us to do a lot more. We can fix up the house upstairs and we can sign you up for more classes and before you know it, it'll be time to send you off to college. Your mother won't have to work so hard over the summers; she can relax. And guess what—she's already planning a family vacation. When's the last time we all got on a plane together?"

Dad gets on a plane every year when he goes to the South by Southwest festival in Texas, and last summer Mom took me to see a doctor in Arizona, but Dad couldn't come because he was finishing up an important project, and just last month Mom and Dad flew alone to Los Angeles for Sydney's funeral. But all three of us have never been on a plane together, not even once.

We were supposed to take a vacation last year, but that didn't happen for some reason. I wasn't upset about it like Mom was. Planes sound cool but they're actually pretty boring once you're in them. Not like a recording studio.

"What about my song?" I say. "You said you'd record it for me."

"Of course. The plan is to rent out the space, but that's not going to happen until September, earliest. I won't start moving out until August. I've still got a few projects I'm working on. I'll finish those up on nights and weekends. After that, I'm all yours."

This studio used to be an empty apartment before Dad moved his equipment in and before he set up his red phone, the one he answers by saying, "You've reached Monkey Finger Productions. This is Ollie." I look around at Dad's amazing stuff and I wonder where it's all going to go and I also wonder where I'm going to go when I want to write my songs or just hang out with Dad while he's working.

"Hey," he says, trying to stop my tears before they start. "Remember how you felt when you left Concordia and started at PS Eight? You thought you were going to hate it, but now you love it? It'll be hard at first, but it's for the best. I really think so. I really do."

He pulls me in. I always like to hug Dad but tonight he's crunching my bones and it's giving me a scary feeling in my chest.

"Ollie!"